The Great Desolation
by LadyKailitha
Summary: I am thousands of years old. I have fought in many wars. I can remember Rameses II, Julius Caesar, Arthur, Charlemagne, William the Conquerer, the first Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, George Washington. My Name is Jhaan, though you humans bastardized it to John. After great desolation comes a light, that light comes in the form of a consulting detective. AU, it may be OOC.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello everyone! Long time, no see! I am sorry for that, truly. But when you have a four, almost five month old learning to move around on his own, your me time goes out the window. I wrote this during a particularly long nap.**

**I had this idea for awhile. Usually you get stories where Sherlock is supernatural and John is mundane and while I have read a few where it's the other way round, there aren't enough of them in my opinion. So you get this.**

**How to pronounce the words:**

**Noctiré- knock-tear  
Taelár- t-ay-l-are not tailor hard on the r sound  
Kifmer- kif (rhymes with tiff)- mere  
Dúdradae- dew-drah-day**

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I am thousands of years old. I have fought in many wars. I can remember Rameses II, Julius Caesar, Arthur, Charlemagne, William the Conqueror, the first Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, George Washington, and all this before the Great Desolation. You would call it the Industrial Revolution. After that, however, my memories become hazy and I vaguely recollect the wars I've been in and the people I have killed in the name of Queen and country. Now there's a laugh. Queen and country. Not my queen and certainly not my country.

My flatmate tells me that my memory is terrible. I hadn't the heart to tell him that a mind palace, no matter how grand, will fill eventually. Even if you "delete" the unimportant. And how do you decide what to keep and what to toss away? Having lived as long as I have, memories tend to run together.

But I digress. You are probably curious as to what I am. To you, I look like you. Human. But that could not be further from the truth. Before I tell you what I am, you need to know about my country and its people. You won't believe me, you know. You'll laugh, you'll scoff, you'll shake your head in disbelief, but you have come to me to hear my story, so as my flatmate is fond of saying, "Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Or something equally wordy and eloquent, but the sentiment is there.

There are three kinds of fae. First, you have the _noctiré_. Beings of no more than a yard, they are full of mischief. You've heard the old wives' tales of creatures snatching babies, spoiling milk, turning cheese and meat. These are those folk. A wise woman would put out salt to appease these creatures. After the Great Desolation your government classified them as pixies. Now they are forced to be mere gremlins, destroying enemies' machines, weapons, and armor. Spoiling their food and water. What they once did for fun and never that often, they were forced to do day in and day out. Had they been human they would be called slaves.

Then you have the _taelár_. They are about the height of a short human adult, with insect wings. Dragonfly, butterfly, bee, house fly, moth, I could go on but I think you get the picture. Their eyes catlike, their hair golden. Stocky in build, they didn't look like they should be able to fly, but it was the muscle mass they needed, coupled with their hollow bones, that enabled their flight. These were what people thought of when they dreamed up fairies. Kind and benevolent healers. Patient and understanding. After the Great Desolation, the name stuck though slightly altered. Faeries.

Lastly, you have the _kifmer_. Tall and graceful. Bright, intelligent, and fierce. Those blind humans actually accused my flatmate of being one of these. However socially awkward he may be, he is not as cruel as these beings. They are vicious fighters, showing no mercy and destroying all that oppose them. Once great lords over all creation, they fell the hardest in the time of the Great Desolation. The government called them elves.

What am I? I am a _dúdradae_. A half breed. My father was a _kifmer_ and my mother was a _taelár_ to whom he had taken a passing fancy and when she refused him, saying that she already had a mate, he raped her and left her for dead. She lived long enough to give birth to me and give me a name. Jhaan. Only my flatmate pronounces it correctly. Everyone else has bastardized it to John. A common name of little dignity. But what is dignity when they have taken everything else away from you?

Maybe you haven't heard the stories. Maybe you thought they were simply tales mothers told to their children to get them to behave. What you call the Industrial Revolution, we call the Great Desolation. For our civilization was left in ruins and we were forced into the servitude of our shiny new human masters. But I suppose revolution is apt as well. After all, we had lorded over the human race as gods for millennia. We were fools to let their technology develop organically. They learned that cold iron could hurt us, could keep us docile.

They put us to sleep by poisoning our water supply. They came in, bound our king and queen with cold iron and told us to submit or they would kill them. We submitted. We know now that it was a lie, but then we were like frightened children. Now each race is bound with cold iron. For the _noctiré_, theirs is wrapped around their neck like slave collars. For the _taelár_, it is twisted around their wrists, a cruel chain of servitude. For the _kifmer_, they saved the cruelest of them all. They had cold iron inserted into their chest, where it wraps around their heart and spreads across their torso, a spider's web of misery and pain.

But it hasn't just been human wars I have fought in. Oh no. Despite, or maybe because we are bound, we have our own wars. I honestly believe the government encourages it. Let us wear ourselves out on each other so we don't have the energy to figure out how to break free of our enslavement. The last war we had was in 1985. We fought over whether or not we should put the taelár to use trying to find a way to break the spell.

When the war started, I thought it was senseless; the only thing I was sure of was that it would end badly for most of us. And it did end badly for me. But it also brought me to something I never thought possible. Someone worth living for.

That rainy summer's day out in Sussex, the day I met a small curly-haired, bright-eyed, little boy. And he changed my life forever.


	2. War

**A/N: Hi! Did you miss me? Or the story at least? There is a huge laundry list of reasons why this took so long, but I won't bore with them. **

**Thanks always to my dear and beloved beta, old ping hai, who is always there with a helping hand and an encouraging word. These stories would be no where near as good without her. **

**And yes, I did give an awesome reason why Sherlock is reckless as hell. **

**Happy reading!**

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War. We often fought before the Great Desolation but nothing like how we fought afterwards. There are a few of us who believe that the Government encourages this. The more we squabbled among ourselves the less energy we had to rebel. And we had tried to on a couple of occasions, each with the same disastrous effect. We lost. We always do.

This particular war was senseless. The _kifmer_ are bastards. While they know that it takes a conscious choice to die, it doesn't stop them from going after the _taelár_. I suppose the prevailing thought is to take out the healers so the war doesn't drag on forever. Never mind that each army is only allowed a set number of the _taelár_. Which is, of course, what makes the _kifmer_ bastards to begin with.

Being a _dúdradae_ had its advantages. I was trained to fight as well as to heal. I am a frontline spears-man, though I do have a sword in case someone actually makes it past my spear to close quarters. With me I also carry two daggers. They were my mother's and were never meant to kill. They are implements of my healers' craft. Where human doctors use scalpels, the _taelár_ use these daggers. And as with fae weapons, they are cold iron. The only thing that can break our skin.

Much of the morning is a blur for me, but I remember fighting to keep the opposing _kifmer_ away from our _taelár_. Sweat poured down my back and brow. Blood crusted in my hair, my blood singing with the tang of cold iron in the air. This was my home. On the battlefield.

I thought I had managed to push them back, but it was a ruse. I had stopped to catch my breath and suddenly I felt it. I looked down and in my side was a sword, but before I could do anything about it, the wielder lifted it up. It brushed against my rib and I screamed in pain. I looked up and the swordsman grinned evilly. That's when I felt it. When he skimmed along the bone, he had broken off the tip inside. I coughed up blood as I stumbled back.

"Filthy _dúdradae_, you should have been wrapped in cold iron and dropped into the Channel," the _kifmer_ growled. He lunged forward and grabbed me by my collar. He whispered in my ear, "But at least your mother was a good _fuck_." He laughed as he pushed me to the ground.

I got up and scrambled away from my father. I ran blind and somehow I must have stumbled through one of the portals into your world, for suddenly it was pissing rain when it had been a clear summers' day only moments before. While England is known for such things, the Underland is not.

I hobbled through the underbrush, my hand pressed to my side. When I could move no further, I found a mostly dry spot under a tree and slumped against the trunk. I tried to take in air, but my lungs burned from the torment of the wound and my attempts to escape my fate. So, I did what any good soldier would do, and swore in every language I knew.

Above me I heard a small voice say, "That was French, German, Spanish, Italian, Farsi, Arabic, Latin, and some language I've never heard before. Is it made up?"

I looked up to see a small boy standing in front of me, his dark eyebrows furrowed over icy blue eyes in confusion. His curly dark hair stuck to his forehead at odd angles and I tried not to laugh. Not just to spare the boy his feelings, but because it would have aggravated the gaping hole in my side.

"It's not made up, it's Coptic," I told him.

"Ancient Egyptian?" he asked skeptically.

"Very good," I coughed. "How old are you?"

The boy frowned. "No one has spoken that for a couple hundred years, at least."

I had to laugh that time, though it quickly turned into a cough. "No speaks Latin either," I informed the youth.

"Doctors and scientists do," he argued.

"They may use it on a daily basis, but they don't actually speak it." I smiled when he grudgingly accepted that.

"Where did you learn Coptic, then?" the boy tilted his chin up obstinately.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. "That's what everyone says. Or that I'll understand when I'm older. No one tells me anything, I'm smart. I'm five."

I blinked at him slowly. If I had pegged an age for dark-haired young one it would have be older, seven or eight. At least. He was tall for his age with intelligence shining through those icy blue eyes.

I leaned forward. "Can you keep a secret?" He nodded. "I leaned Latin from the legionnaires and Coptic from the pharaohs." His eyes went wide. He opened his mouth and then closed it when nothing seemed to come out.

After a moment, I could see the little wheels turning as he thought of something to say. Finally he huffed, "Prove it."

I smirked. "Come closer."

He moved as close as he could without standing on my lap. I removed my hand from the wound and his eyes lit with interest instead of revulsion.

I chuckled, "You really are something special, aren't you?"

The boy leaned back a little then, a frown creasing his brow. "You'd be the first to say so."

I cocked my head to the side, "What makes you say that?" I asked concerned.

"No matter what I do, Mycroft's gone and done it first. Done it better, even."

I huffed out a short laugh. "Your older brother I take it?" He nodded, mutely. "Well, you get to see this first, then."

He leaned in close. While I had been talking to this bright young thing, I had been slowly working out the shard with my mind. Once it was out I concentrated and soon blood vessels closed, tissue knitted back together, and skin stretched out over renewed muscle, leaving only a shiny scar in its wake.

"Do you believe me now?"

"Why couldn't you do that before?" he asked, still skeptical.

I maneuvered my hand so he could peer into my open palm. He looked at the bloody tip with interest.

"Do you know what that is?"

"A small piece of ferrum," the dark-haired youth huffed with pride at knowing its chemical name.

"Very good," I praised and he preened. "It was preventing me from healing myself."

"Are you a vampire then?" he asked.

"That would be silver, but good guess. Of all the creatures you lot came up with, I am grateful that those _don't_ exist."

Finally he made the correct connection. "_Taelár._"

My eyes went wide. Most humans would have called me a faerie. "Where on _earth_ did you learn a word like that?

"I found a book about them in my father's library. I read it. It was very sense-sen-ation-al." His face screwed up at the word.

"Sensational?" I asked patiently. He nodded. "It didn't have any facts at all. It kept saying things like 'we believe' or 'we surmise'. That, and it said they were evil. I had never met anything that was truly evil." His face scrunched up again. "And I doubt my father knows nice people."

I was impressed by his wisdom. "And what make you think they aren't nice?"

"Because Father isn't."

I rocked my head back like I had been hit. A boy his age shouldn't know something like that so absolutely.

"Does he hurt you?" I asked as bile rose up in my throat. The boy nodded. "What is your name?"

"Sherlock," he muttered.

"Your full name, Sherlock." I shouldn't be doing this, I thought.

"Sherlock Alexander Holmes."

I got up on my knees and he scuttled back a bit. "Sherlock Alexander Holmes, I grant you the blessing of a _dúdradae_. You will be protected." I leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

He touched his head with his fingers, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He pushed himself up and dashed back out into the rain. He vanished into the mist and he was gone.

That was only the first time I met this outlier known as Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Family

**A/N: A bit of a long note this time. First off, yay, a longer chapter to make up for my continued long absences between chapters. Secondly, I do have another chapter half written already, so you shouldn't have to wait too long for the next one. It's a Christmas special. My Muse got a hold of Mycroft's line in ASiP "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." and ran with it. Thirdly, my Muse went a little wild on the pirates bit in this chapter...I blame my husband playing Assassin's Creed 4, on that one. Fourthly, a little Jane Austen reference in there if you can catch it. If not, it's all fine. And lastly, some of you may note "the elves getting drunk on caffeine" might sound familiar. Especially if you're a fan of Mercedes Lackey and her Bard series. I wasn't even thinking about that when I wrote it. In fact, as my beta (the lovely old ping hai), picked up on, it was more about my own struggles with caffeine in high school. But, as they say, there is nothing new under the sun.**

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Family. I suppose it is important. That's what I have been told anyway. But I don't think the teller had ever met my family. My father hates me for being born to the woman who spurned his advances. My mother is dead. Her mate hates me for being the cause of her choosing to end her life. Or so he believes. For all I know, he may be right. My sister hates me because I am a _dúdradae_. And not for the normal reasons my kind is hated.

You see, as with any half-breed I have encountered, neither side is very welcoming. Both sides are too proud to admit that such things happened. Whether through rape as was in my case (and sadly in most cases) or from a love match. Though rare, the latter does occur. But despite the animosity felt toward the children, they are trained in both the fighting and healing arts. Not training them isn't an option. It would be like trying to stopper a hurricane. Just as a _kifmer_ must fight and a _taelár_ must heal. I realize that that concept must seem foreign to you. It would be like asking a horse to fly or a hawk to run on all fours than to ask a fae to go against its nature.

And yet, that was exactly what my sister wanted. She wanted to be able to fight like a _kifmer_. In my foolish youth I attempted to teach her until we both grew fed up with the constant failures. I stopped teaching her and she turned to drink. Not alcohol. We can drink a German or an Irishman under the table and laugh as they fall to floor. The alcohol gives us a buzzed, happy feeling. No, for us, it is caffeine. Coke, tea, coffee. You name it, if it has it, we can get drunk on it. (Not chocolate, though. That's a myth.) Regardless, she turned to drink and lives in a perpetual state of drunkenness.

So, my family consists of my father, who lives in a state of rage and indignation; my step-father, who lives in a state of apathy and sorrow; and my sister, who lives in a state of disappointment and drink. And Sherlock's family wasn't really any better.

The next I saw him, the day couldn't have been any more different. The sun was shining gloriously over the white sandy beaches of Bamburgh. I was there visiting a friend when I saw a familiar dark-haired figure. His dark curls flopped over his eyes and he would now come up to my chest should he stand in front of me. He wore blue and white striped trousers that appeared to be raggedly cut off at the calf, a white dress shirt that had the sleeves ripped off, a black bandana over his head, and bright a red sash on his waist. In his hand he brandished a sword and was waving it at a surly teenager.

The stranger was older than Sherlock, by at least five years. He was rounder than the other youth, with piercing dark blue eyes and thin auburn hair. He seemed intent on ignoring the sword-wielding pirate in front of him.

As I neared the boys, I heard Sherlock call out to his brother. "Come on, Mycroft," he groused. "You promised."

The other boy huffed as he got to his feet. "Fine," he murmured. "If it will keep you out of trouble for five minutes."

Sherlock laughed as he watched Mycroft putting on his pirate gear in total seriousness. First went on the long purple sash, then a large hat with matching purple feather. He took off his shoes and pulled on a pair of black leather boots in their place. He stood and tucked his own sword into the sash. I chuckled. All he lacked to fit the perfect pirate stereotype was a fancy coat.

"Ah, Mycroft…" Sherlock sounded disappointed. "What happened to the eyepatch? It looked good on you," the boy flattered.

"I'm not wearing it," the auburn-haired youth huffed. "Not after last time." I could only imagine what the little boy had done.

His brother just giggled, clearly unrepentant. "So which pirate do you want to be today?"

"You know I prefer privateers," the older boy puffed up his chest in pride. "No outlaws for me. No. Pillaging, stealing, and plundering for Queen and country, now that is something I can get behind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, never mind that once the Queen so graciously revoked their marques most of them happily jumped over to piracy."

"Ah," Mycroft raised a single finger. "But not all of them."

His brother rolled his eyes again, "Fine. Sir Francis Drake or William Death?"

"As much as Sir Francis appeals to me, he had a nasty habit of keeping slaves. So William it is, though I detest his last name."

"Captain Death it is! And I will be the dread pirate William Kidd."

This time Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Avast ye, matey," he droned, pulling out his sword and waving it listlessly.

"Put some backbone innit!" Sherlock shouted, affecting a "pirate" accent, or what he thought was one, anyway. He moved into what I vaguely recognized as a fencing form. I didn't know the name, as it was never something I cared to learn, but it was clear that Sherlock did not feel the same. Fencing requires grace and speed, two things I may lack, but things my young friend clearly had in spades.

A gleam entered Mycroft's eyes as their fighting took on a competitive edge, and he finally immersed himself in the game. "The Battle of the Two Williams," as I was calling it in my head, waged across the beach, into the water and over the rocks. All fun dropped away, however, when the brash young pirate climbed a particularly high rock.

"Come down from there! Sherlock, it's too high!" But his little brother just laughed. "Sherlock, it's too high!" Sherlock began to dance on the rock much like the Fool of Tarot, except he knew fully where the edge was and laughed gleefully at the thought of danger. "Don't be foolish!" Mycroft admonished. When the younger boy refused to get down, the older one huffed, "I'm telling mummy." And with that the teenager dashed off for the house nearby.

I had progressively gotten closer while watching the drama unfold and was positioned at the base of the high rock when the youth leaped off with reckless abandon. And straight into my arms. He laughed in delight as I moved to untangle us.

"You know, when I granted you protection, I didn't mean for you to be so impetuous." Sherlock finally deigned to look at the person who had cushioned his fall.

"My _taelár_!" he exclaimed, happy to see me. I was glad that our previous encounter hadn't frightened him. I was also amused at his use of the possessive pronoun.

"Hello, Sherlock," I said, smiling at him.

He folded his arms in front of his chest. "You know my name, but you haven't told me yours."

"Well, that was rude of me, wasn't it?" The boy nodded. "My name is Jhaan."

"Jhaan," he repeated. It was like he was tasting it. Before I could ask him what had been happening since our last meeting, I heard the sounds of hurried footsteps and turned to see Mycroft trailing a tall woman with curly auburn hair and piercing blue eyes. (And yes I could see that far, my eyesight is better than yours.)

"Sherlock!" she called as she came up to us. She turned to me and then back to her son. "Have you hurt this man?" she asked pointing my direction. The dark-haired boy shook his head and she decided not to take his word for it as she asked me, "Are you well, sir?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I wouldn't have lived this long if a little boy could take me out." She looked at me, confused.

Her youngest son rolled his eyes. "He's a soldier, mummy. Can't you tell?" he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course, he only knew about that due to our prior meeting; no real deduction on his part. But she didn't even ask how he knew.

Mrs. Holmes turned to me again, "Well, thank you all the same. I don't know what gets into him these days. Honestly, I have never seen a more impulsive child in all my years. Mycroft was never like this at his age. No, Mycroft was such such a sensible child. So quiet, not like Sherlock. He makes so much noise." I looked over at her boys and both were shifting uncomfortably. I bristled at the the implication that a good child had to be seen and not heard.

"Violet!" I heard a man call from the house. "You and Mycroft get your arses in here, now. Leave the little shit out there. That will teach him not to go dashing about like some street urchin." Violet nodded in my direction and then dashed off for the house, not once looking behind to see if either of her sons followed.

I turned to her eldest. "Does he hurt you as well?" I asked him.

Mycroft looked down at his scuffed up boots as if they were to blame. "No. Mostly he threatens to hurt Sherlock if I don't comply. Though he hasn't physically hurt Sherlock in years, he still does other things like locking him in his room, refusing to feed him, taking away his violin. Things like that." The older boy looked ashamed.

I nodded. "I know you're still young yet, Mycroft, but you need to stand up for yourself and your brother, because your mother never will. She's too afraid of him, but you can't be."

Mycroft nodded and looked at Sherlock briefly before turning to make his way to the house.

I sighed, watching the elder Holmes brother trot up the beach. When he reached the house, an older man, tall and round like Mycroft, came out and grabbed him by the collar. They had a brief conversation before going into the house and leaving Sherlock behind.

I looked at the boy, who had not said a word since the little comment about my occupation. "Come along, Holmes," I said lightly, hoping to make him smile, but he continued to stare at his feet.

"Sherlock?" I asked, worried.

He looked up at me and I could see tears rolling down his pale cheeks. "Can't you bless them, too?"

I knelt down in front of him and took his arms into my hands. "I can't. God. I wish I could, but I can only give it to one person at a time. As long as that person lives, I cannot bestow it on another."

The boy nodded woefully. "I just want to protect them, too."

I pulled him into my arms, "I know, love. I guess you'll just have to find more mundane ways of doing so, okay?"

"Okay," he muttered into my shirt.

I pulled away and took his hand. "Come on, then. I'll introduce you to my friend. He's a silkie," I put my finger to my lips, "Shh, don't tell. The government thinks we are the only magical creatures on the island." His eyes lit up like starlight.

"He and his wife are staying in a cottage just down the way. I was swimming when I saw you and your brother."

"Is his wife a silkie, too?" Sherlock asked.

"No, silkies have to mate with humans. They can't mate with their own kind."

The dark-haired boy frowned. "That sounds stupid. What happens if they can't find humans to mate with?"

"Then they die out. It's sad, but that just the way it works. I have seen it happen far too often in my long years."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Eons. Not old enough to remember you lot running around in caves, but I do remember the height of ancient civilization."

Sherlock nodded as we finally made it to the small cottage where I had been staying. I led the way into the house with a now very cautious boy hiding behind me. I introduced everyone. I explained the situation to my friends and they were more than willing to let Sherlock stay with them overnight.

After a while Sherlock began to relax. He turned to me and stage whispered, "Does she know she's pregnant?" All eyes turned to him.

"How did you know that?" I asked, but the boy just shrugged. "Yes, she does. That's why I was asked to come and visit. To make sure things were going well." The dark-haired youth nodded.

But he had impressed our hosts and they were delighted with him. So Sherlock spent the night in peace, enjoying himself. Before I left to take him back to his brother, the silkie gave him a whale bone to keep. He tucked under his shirt so his father wouldn't see it.

We walked back in silence. I hated leaving him there, but the fierce determination on Mycroft's face made it easier to bear. As I walked away, I wondered when we would meet again, as it seemed our Fates were intertwined.


	4. Christmas

**A/N: Hello darlings. A little Christmas chapter for you. My muse took that line from ASiP that Mycroft says at the end, "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." and ran with it. But alas, this also means I won't be updating until the start of the New Year. **

**There will be two more chapters until the meeting in ASiP and then I'm not sure if I'll do the rest of the episodes. But be sure you will see Moriarty and Irene Adler. I have plans for those two... *evil grin* It will just be different than the series. I hope it'll be good. **

**Thanks to ****_Elizabeth Mary Holmes_**** and ****_CowMow_**** for your reviews. Your comments were lovely. I just haven't had time to respond. Thanks my lovely beta ****_old ping hai_**** for her help and support. **

**Enjoy!**

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Christmas. That time of year when families get together in the name of peace and goodwill and try and kill each other over plum pudding and roasted goose. Christmas is by far the most amusing holiday you lot have come up with. You took all our "pagan" symbols and applied them to your Christ and then took over our winter holidays, smashed them together into one and called it your own. You even took the name of one our more prominent celebrations and applied it to the season. Does Yuletide sound familiar? Yeah. That was us.

It was Christmas time, the next I saw my dark-haired friend. One of the big Holmes family to-do's. And they need security when they have that many people from the government, and from noble and wealthy families in one place. With being the pretentious bastards they are, they only wanted the best. Which meant my team, and my team means two other _dúdradae_ and a _kifmer_. The _kifmer_ was our "commander." And oh, how we hated him.

The ballroom was awash in greens and reds and golds and it made my eyes hurt and my head ache. I wanted nothing more than to get stoned off my ass drunk to make through this nightmare. But our masters were clever; the only drinks available were those that would get them drunk. Alcohol. So I set out to get at least buzzed on my breaks. Hoping that the fuzzy feeling would blur the lines enough to make the night tolerable.

But alas it was not meant to be, because before I could take my first drink, I spotted a tangle of boys picking on another boy. The group parted enough to see the tormented, and I spotted a mass of dark curls. Sighing, I set down my drink and moved toward my young friend.

The boys were preparing to beat him up and I knew what had drawn my attention. The protection spell. Usually it works by dissuading the target from abuse but sometimes it needs to use other methods. Like calling for help, and this time it picked me. I got to the boys just as the leader was about to throw the first punch. I caught it with my left and I looked up under the swing into the boy's eyes.

"I don't think you want to be doing that," I told him, my voice was friendly though my eyes were not. The leader looked around at his friends but they weren't coming to his aid. No one wants to mess with_ dúdradae_ security. Even if they didn't know exactly what that meant. They only knew we were special forces and that always struck fear and respect into them.

"Why don't you boys run along, eh? Leave this one alone." Gone was the friendly tone, replaced with cold, hard steel. They looked around at each other before dashing off, leaving a very angry Sherlock in their wake.

"I could have handled it. I don't need help!" he hissed at the floor, keeping his eyes glued to his shoes.

I looked him over. "The spell said otherwise, lad," I informed him, crossing my arms in front of my chest. His eyes snapped up to my face.

"Especially from you!" he spat, full of venom. I stepped back, blinking. I almost didn't recognize the lively youth in the spiteful creature before me. Gone was the bright-eyed boy, full of adventure. His eyes were cold and dead, hooded under dark brows. More like the ocean in a storm than starlight. It pained me to see it. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was wild, and despite the straight spine, his shoulders were rounded in defeat. He was far too thin, more like a half-starved scarecrow than the growing boy he was meant to be.

"That damn spell only works on physical abuse. It doesn't work against taunts, jeers, and neglect! I am alone. You left me alone!" Sherlock pounded on his chest as he began to scream. And me? Well, I was crying. I put my arms around the gangly youth and held him close. He clenched my shirt, uncertain whether to hold me close or push me away. I eventually made the decision for him and pushed us apart gently.

"Watson!" I heard call as I was about to speak. I winced. I hated the surname the army gave me when I was formally inducted into their ranks. Which I believe was sometime after the Germans began the London Blitz.

Sherlock looked at me curiously. "Watson?" he asked.

"It's my 'last name'; can't have the enemy wondering why some of us have only first names and start digging into it."

"Watson!" the voice called out again. "You get your arse over here!"

"Look, Sherlock, I've got to go. But, meet me in the library tonight and we'll talk, alright?" The dark-haired teenager nodded and dashed off, as I would later learn, in the direction of the library. Of course there was library. In place this large, I'd bet they had two or a very big one.

I jogged back to the start of the hall where my C.O. was standing. He grabbed me by the front of my coat and dragged me to the main ballroom.

"This is where you are supposed to be," he snarled. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Just finished breaking up a fight, as per my orders, sir." My chin went up, my spine straightened, and my heels clicked together.

"Jumped up little shits, the lot of them. God. I've had to break up my fair share of tonight as well. No control, these jackanapes."

"Yes, sir," I agreed.

"Dismissed."

I saluted smartly and got out of there as fast as I could. Once I was far enough away that he wouldn't hear me, I growled long and low. I wanted to scream in frustration but I had a job to do. I strolled along the outskirts of the ballroom, looking for the first sign of trouble.

And I found it. It just wasn't the trouble I was supposed to be looking out for, namely drunks, ne'er-do-well's, and would-be assassins. Of course assassins were the real reason we were there but we often spent the time saving them from themselves. But I digress. The trouble I had found came in the form of Mr. Holmes grabbing Mycroft's jacket lapel and pulling him in close.

Seeing him up close, I couldn't help but compare the elder Holmes to his two sons. He was tall, standing over Mycroft by an inch or two, their build the same. They had the same thin, straight hair, though Mycroft's was auburn like his mother's while Mr. Holmes's hair was dark like his youngest son's. But the biggest difference between the two men was that Mr. Holmes demanded respect, while Mycroft clearly commanded respect. As even though Mr. Holmes gripped his son's jacket tighter, Mycroft remained calm.

As I neared, I heard them speak.

"You find that wastrel brother of yours and you bring him here. I will not have him embarrass me again this year."

Mycroft bowed his head, "Yes, sir." His tone was submissive, but as I got in close I could see the twinkle of mischief in his eye.

"So, why are you still here?" the older man growled and his son merely pointed at the fist still grasping his jacket. Mr. Holmes looked down and then pushed the young man away rom him. The auburn-haired man only stumbled a step or two before he righted himself. He brushed the wrinkles out of his dinner coat and turned on his heel, strolling out of there like all they had done was merely talk.

I continued my rounds and made sure to end it close to them again when Mycroft returned. Which he did about twenty minutes later. Without his brother.

Mr. Holmes was not amused. "I thought I told you to bring your brother back here?" he snapped at the other man.

"He said and I quote 'I was told to stay here and this is where I am staying.' I even tried dragging him like you suggested, but he merely dug in his heels and flopped to the floor in a dead weight." Mycroft rolled his eyes to show his thoughts on the childishness of his teenaged brother.

"Who the hell told him to stay in the library?" Mycroft merely shrugged his elegant shoulders.

I stepped forward. "Would your son be a young man about this tall?" I raised my hand to a couple inches above my head. "With blue eyes and riot of dark curls?"

"Yes…" Mr. Holmes agreed, sounding suspicious.

"Then I am who you are looking for. I told him to stay in the library to avoid the boys that were picking on him."

He eyed me warily. "Come with me _dúdradae._" He turned to his son. "You stay here and play host. God knows someone has to." I looked over at Mycroft and saw that he was looking at his toes, his face a dark cloud. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but the elder Holmes had already strolled off. I hastened to catch up.

"Excuse me, Mister…." I inquired.

"Holmes. Siger Holmes. That other boy was my eldest. Going into politics. Like there is any money in that," the burly man scoffed. "Business is where it's at. But at least he some kind of ambition, not like my youngest."

"And where is their mother tonight? Wouldn't she better at this?" I asked as I hadn't seen her all night.

"Probably, but she died of cancer last year. Peas in a pod, those two. Completely useless. But she could talk Sherlock out of his hidey-holes."

I worried my bottom lip to avoid saying something that might come back to bite me in the arse later. Not that I would regret it, but you should never go asking for trouble. I couldn't have been more grateful, then, when we reached the library.

Siger threw open the double doors and sauntered into the room. Sherlock jumped to his feet and his eyes darted back and forth between me and his father.

"Right," the boy's father started turning to me. "Now, you tell my son to get out there and stand up to them like a man."

"No."

I don't think anyone had ever said that word to him in his recent memory, because he blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, I will not tell him to go back out there. The spell won't allow it." My face spilt in a feral grin.

Siger's face clouded. "So you're the _dúdradae_ that has been protecting him since he was five. I knew there must have been something like that by the third time I was convinced to punish him differently than I intended. You take it off, you tosser!" And when I stood there, he added, "I command you!"

My expression darkened and the tendrils of my power encircled me and then exploded, reaching out toward the businessman. Mr. Holmes staggered back while Sherlock stood stock still, his jaw hanging open.

"Let's make one thing abundantly clear. You do not hold my leash. Far greater men do that. You are but an insect in comparison. You cannot command me." Then in the blink of an eye I was close enough to whisper in his ear. "Now, listen very carefully, you worthless pile of flesh. You leave this boy alone. He is special in ways you will never be. He is mine. You _can't_ have him!"

Siger blinked and nodded. I patted his cheek. "Now run, you little shit. Run." And he did. He scrambled away from me and ran from the room without a single glance back. I looked over at my young friend, who was still in shock. I chuckled and that brought him back to the real world.

"What. Was. That?"

I shrugged. He didn't have to know everything. Besides it was more fun this way. I assumed, however, that he was going to press the issue, so I was a little surprised when he let it go. Perhaps he was more shocked than I thought. He did ask me other things and we talked the night away. Mycroft came and checked on us twice, but both times he merely poked his head in and then left without a word.

I don't know what was said to my C.O., only that he never came looking for me that night, nor said anything after. Far too quickly the night was brought to a close, and we said our good-byes.

"I know things are tough now, Sherlock," I told the dark-haired youth, "but some day you will find someone who sees who you are on the inside, and you will never be alone again."

He shook his head, disbelieving.

A couple months later I learned from the paper his father had died. The police were saying suicide. He had run himself off a building screaming about a dark elf chasing him. The headline read "Prominent business man rushes to his death, raving like a mad man." I hoped that this meant things would be better for Sherlock.

I couldn't have been more wrong.


	5. Crime

**A/N: Another chapter just for you! And another soon on the way with thanks to my lovely beta, old ping hai. Not only does she help with grammar and punctuation, she helps me make sure things make sense to everyone that's not me. She also helps get past blocks in my stories. She really is a marvel.**

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Crime. Despite what you may think, we have our share of it. Our society isn't perfect. We don't sit around singing songs and looking pretty. We have thieves, rapists (of course), liars, cheats, swindlers, frauds. And while we can't be killed, forced to give up our immortality, it is possible to do a serious amount of damage either through magic (which is the most effective) or through cold iron; we call this act murderous intent.

Even in our wars, we aim to disable. But this? This is pure hatred. To seek out someone with the intent that were we not immortal, they would kill us. It's not easy to prove, but we've had our share of these creatures. I wish I could say that they were all from the _kifmer_ but, alas, even the other races have known such animosity.

We have a council of judges and force of protectors that act as our police. Our justice system is not unlike yours, but if I were pressed, I'd say you learned it from us.

Crime has always been a part of Sherlock's adult life. I wish I could say he was always on the side of the angels, but that, my dear friends, would be lying. When next I met him, he was firmly entrenched into that wicked devil known as drugs.

It was pissing rain, which was just my luck. I get a little bit of leave time from the fucking desert and home is dark and dismal. I pulled my collar up against the torrential downpour and continued to cuss out the weather.

I was trying to make it to my dingy little flat from a pub night out with the boys, when I felt a strange little tug in the direction of the alley. I frowned, looking into the dark abyss to my right and I would have moved on, not having seen anything, if it wasn't for the tug that had now become insistent.

"Shit!" I knew what that meant. I pulled my dinky little pen light out of my jeans pocket and tried to shine it into the gloom. I ducked into the backstreet, squinting through the darkness and rain, trying to find my charge. My small light barely pierced the blackness. I was about to give up, when I literally tripped over him. I shined my torch down and the sight before me made my heart weep.

Sherlock's hair was matted and stuck to his head. His clothes were raggedy and hadn't been washed in god knows when. They hung loose about his now almost-skeletal frame. I knelt before him, and he looked up at me, bleary-eyed.

I sighed wearily. "Come on, mate. Let's get you somewhere warm and dry, shall we?" He merely stared at me as though I was a figment of his drug-induced haze.

"Dear god, what did you take?" I asked, now more than a little concerned. He just giggled at me.

I hoisted him up on to my shoulder and made my way back to my flat. It took longer than I would have liked, as Sherlock's body would lurch and pitch at the weirdest angles and at the worst possible moments. Finally we made it up the stairs and into my living room.

I left him slumped on the sofa and then I got the fire started. Once it was good and blazing, I hurried back to the drugged man, who merely giggled at my attempts to make him less…well, less floppy and all over the place.

I rubbed my hands over my face as I contemplated my options. Some human "experts" claim that addiction is a disease. I wish that was true, but as far as my magic is concerned, it's not. Someone would have cured my sister centuries ago if it had been that easy.

It seemed my only options were to get him warm, dry and fed and then wait for the inevitable crash. After that came I could cure the physical effects of his withdrawal. So I got to work.

The first thing I did was change out of my own wet things. I needed to be in top form and the discomfort and the added weight would slow me down. Once I had taken care of my own needs, I focused on my friend.

I peeled him out of his wet things and immediately binned them. I left his underthings on after seeing they weren't too bad in terms of dryness and wear. I pulled out his phone, wallet and keys and set them on the table next to the couch. The phone miraculously still worked despite the soaking it just got. I wrapped him in blankets and added a hot water bottle for good measure.

I rifled through my flatmate's things; he was a normal human who was currently still in the field and wouldn't be home to notice his missing things for another six months or so. He was taller than I was, but not quite Sherlock's six feet. I pulled out some jeans and a loose t-shirt and brought them to my charge. Who, when I returned to living room, I found completely passed out. I checked his vitals to insure that he wouldn't keel over on me and was mildly pleased with the verdict. It wasn't normal, but at least he wasn't going to die on me, either.

I thought about food and knew, due to the fact that both me and my flatmate had been gone, there was but one can of beans and judging from the smell, one very moldy loaf of bread. That just wouldn't do. I hated going back out in that weather, but Sherlock would need food. And myself of course.

When I stepped out of my flat, the rain had slackened and it was barely tolerable. At least this time I remembered my umbrella. I hurried back in case Sherlock had awakened in the interim. He hadn't, thankfully.

I put the food away and wrote my companion a note telling him what had happened and to not panic. Feeling pleased with the results, I went to my room and slept.

I woke up to the idiot panicking. I could hear thumping and stumbling and thrashing about. I sighed and made my way to the living room, tying the sash of my bathrobe as I went. When I got there, the sight before me caused me to laugh out loud. For there stood Sherlock, legs trapped by the blankets, flailing his arms as he attempted not to fall. He had one arm in the t-shirt I had left for him and in the other hand was mobile phone.

His blue eyes snapped up to see who was laughing at him and he promptly fell to the ground. Once he had gotten himself untangled, he glared up at me. "Should have realized it was you. No one else would have given a damn. Or lived in such a dismal little flat."

I gestured to the blankets and shirt lying in a heap around him, "Do I want to know how got so tangled?"

A faint blushed tinted the dark-haired young man's cheeks as he muttered, "No."

I went and made tea. When I returned with two cups, my friend had gotten dressed. I realized that I had made an error on the shirt. While it had been loose on my flatmate, it was certainly _not_ that on Sherlock. For starters, it barely grazed the top of the jeans, flashing a bit of skin when he moved. And for another, it was so tight across the chest, I could make out the barest hint of his nipples.

The jeans thankfully took away from the effect the t-shirt was having, as they looked almost comical. They were tight, not in a sexual way, and came three inches above his ankles.

He was pulling on his shoes when I put the cup of tea next him. He stood up.

"Oi! And where do you think you're going?" I asked, putting my hand on his chest and pushing him back on to the couch.

"You're like a bad penny. Always turning up." I glared at him. "Alright, fine. I was on my way to get more drugs. Obviously." He rolled his eyes at me.

My face went from dark to positively stormy. "Oh hell no. Spell or no spell, you could have _died_."

Sherlock looked up at me in shock. "I thought the spell protected me from harm."

I ran my fingers over my face. I was sure how I could explain this to him in a way that made sense.

"It does. But it can't stop you from harming yourself."

He rocked his head back like he'd been slapped. "I-I just…I just want it to stop." He looked so distressed.

I knelt in front of him. "Stop what?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and began to pull on the curls. "This constant noise. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Everything bombarding me with information. I can't turn it off. The drugs- they help. They slow things down."

I reached up and pulled his hands from his hair. "It's alright, Sherlock. I can't even imagine what that must be like. And I'm thousands of years old. Right now I can do something for your other, more pressing worries." He looked up at me confused. "The itchy feeling under your skin. The headache that is beginning to pierce you behind your eyes. The churning feeling in your stomach. I can make that go away."

His eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You'd heal me?" I nodded. "Will-will it hurt?"

I let go of his hands to stroke his cheek. "No, sweetheart. Not at all." I brought up my other hand to firmly take hold of his head. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the ills I just described. One by one they vanished into the void. Once I was done, Sherlock slumped forward on to my chest.

"Thank you," the dark-haired young man muttered.

I laid him back down. "You need sleep." He nodded and then drifted off to sleep.

Later that evening he accused me of putting him to sleep. I explained that the exhaustion plus the ravenous feeling he had was part of the healing process. The body needed energy and fuel to recover and will demand it.

When I handed him the stew I had made while he slept, he merely grumbled that it was my fault he was so hungry before tucking and finishing it off quickly. I said nothing when he held out his bowl for more. He was about to start on his third helping when his phone shrilled.

"God damn it. I knew it was too good to last," Sherlock muttered. I raised I questioning eyebrow. He sighed. "My brother has deigned to inform me that if I am not at Regency Park within the hour, he will call the police on me."

"He'd do that?" I asked.

"Yes, he would. The fat oaf." The tone was bitter and harsh.

_Okay_…. So apparently in the eight years since I had last seen Mycroft he had gained weight. And the brothers had had a falling out. I never could get either brother to tell me what had happened between them, in all the years I was to know them.

"Alright, then," I told him. "You finish up that bowl and then we'll get you to Regency Park. We can't have the cops coming after you."

My young friend returned to his bowl, but he merely picked at it.

"Hey, it'll be okay," I said, trying to encourage him.

"You always say that and then things get worse," he said pouting into his bowl.

"Perhaps the universe is storing up all your good things to happen all at once," I said, smiling.

"That just ridiculous," he muttered, but went back to eating.

Once he was done, I dropped him off at a park bench to wait for his brother. As I was leaving, a wind brushed through my hair. I could taste the wind of change and feel the hands of fate, guiding it.

Just then I heard a dog barking and I turned around. A dog had decided to make Sherlock's ankle his chew toy and its poor frazzled owner was desperately trying at the same time to get the dog to heel and apologize profusely. I was about to walk over and help out my young friend, when I realized that the tug of the protection spell was conspicuously absent. I smiled at the pair and walked on.

You should ask Sherlock to tell you the tale of the _Gloria Scott_. He tells it better than I do, if you can get him to tell you, that is. How that fateful day in the park turn his destiny toward that of a consulting detective.

The other young man was good for my friend, but as with all good things, they must come to an end. I just wish their parting hadn't driven Sherlock back to the drugs.


	6. Interlude: Magic

**A/N: Thanks to my beta old ping hai for getting through this slog of a chapter, because seriously it was a beast. I just hope it makes sense. Though generally she'll tell me when it doesn't so I'm going to have to trust her on this one.**

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Magic. The world is full of it. And while humans can't use it, it still effects your lives in ways you can't possibly imagine. And there are all kinds. I have mentioned the fae and the selkie, but there are djinn and dragons. Well…not so much in England anymore. You kind hunted the dragons to near extinction some time around the middle ages. And of course the djinn are found in the middle east.

As I explained earlier, magic is one of the best ways to hurt us. Cold iron does the job, but only to a point. Like with any weakness inherent in a race, not every member reacts to it the same. You have some where it is merely an irritation like a bug bite and others where the slightest contact is so agonizing that were they touched with it, they would consider dying rather than live with the pain.

But magic? That is different. We can do magic, but we have no defense against it. I hear you ask, how can that be? Your lot makes weapons, guns and their bullets, but you don't have a defense against getting shot. And don't tell me you have bulletproof vests because one, you don't wear them on a daily basis; and two, you have ammunition that can tear through those vests like a hot knife through butter. Nothing is infallible.

I was on patrol when it happened. It was supposed to have been a simple exercise. We were told there were no hostiles in the area. Some days, in my darkest moments, I wonder if we were betrayed.

I was one of two medical personnel on hand, the other was nurse Bill Murray. Until that day I thought he was a human like you. I'm still unsure what he was. I have theories, but that's all they are. I can say that whatever he was, he used his abilities, his magic, his whatever, to save my life.

How, you wonder. Especially after all my talk about it having to be our choice to give up our immortality? It's simple enough, the utter destruction of my physical form. Did you ever wonder where ghosts came from? And it's not as though finding another body is easy. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We were several miles from base when the sun began to set. Just when it hit the horizon, it blazed, blinding us. And in its final glory came the volley of gun fire.

We sought cover behind rocks and hills, but this was prime ambush territory. Bullets rained down on us as we fought back. Most of what happened is hazy to me, but I can still feel sand on my skin and in my eyes. The taste of copper in my mouth and its acerbic smell burning my nose. My ears ringing from the gun fire and screams. The screaming started as orders and descended into shrieks of pain and agony.

I was running around patching up wounds the best I could. It was too risky to heal out in the field. It required a massive amount of concentration, something that was highly lacking in battle. I just hoped that what little I could do would get the ones we could save back to base so I could work my healing on them.

I don't remember what it was that caught my attention, but just ever so slightly I turned to the right and my left shoulder exploded in extreme anguish. I remember it feeling so unbearable. It felt as though it was leeching into my very soul, tearing it apart. I can't even recall if I screamed. I must have because Bill appeared above me. He began shouting in a language I had never heard before. It sounded old. Older than even the fae. There was a flash of light and then complete and utter blackness.

When I awoke I was told that I had lost too much blood and that because none of my lineage could be found other than my sister, I was being sent back to England for transfusion. You see, like you humans have blood types where you can only receive blood of that type, we have can only be given blood of the same lineage. Far too many of mine had chosen to pass on and there were only a handful of us left. While I was alive (if you could call it that) I was unable to move, and speech was slow and slurred.

The next time I awoke I was on a medical evac. plane on my way back to the land of fog and rain. The flight was long and boring with the mysterious Bill as my only company. He was a scrawny-looking kid with more freckles than there were stars in the sky. His eyes were a dark emerald green. His hair was a fiery red that stuck up in all directions. He didn't look like the type that the army would take, let alone one that could make it through basic training.

My savior was poor company, as he refused to utter more than two words together. Bill kept an eye on me the whole time as if he expected that I would do something foolish if he looked away. It was unnerving.

The only thing I could make out as something other than a grunt was when we landed in Portsmouth. There was a helicopter that would take me the rest of the way to London, and as they were wheeling me out to it, he leaned over and said in a thick Irish accent, "Watch yourself, laddie; there is somethin' coming for ya. Somethin' big and bad. I won't be there the next time you fall."

He vanished from my side before I could ask any questions. When we had taken off I was able to glance out of the window, and there looking up at us flying by was a ginger-furred wolf. I shook my head, and when I looked again the wolf was gone and it was Bill waving good-bye.

_A faoladh?_ Impossible. Werewolves don't exist. _Do they?_

We reached the hospital where a very drunk Harry was waiting for us. The nurse doing the procedure looked Harry over skeptically before she shrugged and got down to business. As the transfusion went on I got stronger, and Harry became sober.

Out of the blue she said, "You remember Clara?" Of course I remembered Clara, she was the human woman that my sister fell in love with five years ago and married a couple years after that.

"I better remember my sister-in-law," I said, hoping to keep things light.

"Well, she's not anymore," Harry growled.

"She's not what?" My head was still fuzzy from the rush of having blood in my system again.

"Your sister-in-law. We're getting a divorce," Harry's voice had a steely edge to it.

I had progressed to the point where I could move again and I used the opportunity to rub my hand over my face. "Harry…"

"Don't you 'Harry' me. You haven't the right. The bitch had gall to give me an ultimatum. Her or the drink. I mean, who the hell does she think she is? How dare she make me choose. She'll grow old, fat and die and I will remain fair and beautiful forever. She should feel lucky I deigned to stoop to her level in the first place."

The procedure was done and the nurse gave Harry an odd look before she left, taking her equipment with her.

Once I was alone with my sister I hissed, "What is wrong with you? You know not everyone here knows what we are. You were told that when they brought you here. I know they told you."

Harry waved her hand flippantly. "Oh, who cares about that hag. It's not as though she's going to say anything." I gave up then. There was just no talking to her when she gets like this. I was never more grateful then when they escorted her out. I knew there was no turning to her for help when I got released.

After I finished my physio, they sent me to a therapist. Apparently all military personnel had to do a psych eval. upon returning from active duty, and since the lovely government weren't keen on people asking why certain soldiers were exempt, that meant I had to do it, too.

It had been three months since coming back to England, and still I was forced to see my therapist. There seemed to be no end in sight.

"How goes the blog?" Ella asked at our latest appointment.

That god damn blog. It was ridiculous. The thought of that stupid blog made me want to tell her I was a several thousand years old magical being. I wondered briefly what she would do; probably have me sanctioned.

"Yeah, good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?" she pressed.

I indicated her pad with my chin, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'"

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean? You're a civilian now and writing what happens to you honestly will help."

"Nothing happens to me."

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**A/N: part 2 Faoladh. An Irish werewolf. Known for protecting children and wounded soldiers. I just added a wee bit more magic. ;) **


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